numbers aren't my thing.

I started counting calories.

No, for real this time!

I've been complaining about losing 10 pounds forever. And everything I've tried to do seems to take me in the opposite direction. And with summer approaching, and all of my favorite warm-weather clothes taunting me because they don't fit*, I had to get serious.

I joined a gym in January.

I signed up for this kick-your-ass strength-training class. After my first class last week, my arms hurt so much I could barely lift them to wash my face in the shower. They were like jello. It took 5 days before I could pull up my pants without wincing. If it hurts that much, it must be working. Right???

And I started counting my calories with this app, or, how I like to refer to it, the Best App In America.

I'm not an unhealthy eater**, but manually entering everything you eat into a counter, well that's rather eye-opening. I'm sure this is what it's like with the Weight Watchers app. It's just so cool. And telling.

You set up a profile,  heights, weights, how much you want to lose and by when. Then you can enter any exercise you do each day. Then you enter your daily food intake.

It searches foods, and just about everything I've entered is in there in some way, shape or form. So you can see how many calories you have left for each meal and snacks. 45 calories left for dinner? You might need some adjustment.

Yesterday was my first day with the app. It allowed me to finagle what I was putting in/on my salad until I got the calorie combination correct. And I even had enough calories left to enjoy ONE Cadbury Mini Egg. (that was ONE egg, not ONE handful).

So we'll see how long this lasts. To get to my targeted weight by August 1, I can only eat about 1400 calories a day. Or 87.5 Mini Eggs.

*How is this possible? I slimmed down training for my 5k. I'm still running, and I have a 5K this weekend, but the clothes don't fit. WTF?

**Except on the weekends, when calories don't count.

crossing the panty line.

Welcome to my 600th post! 
For those of you who didn't stop reading 598 posts ago - thanks for hanging in there with me!


Recent posts have described the unabashed exhibitionism going on in the women's locker room at my gym.


I told you about the naked 60 year olds propping their legs up on benches and rubbing cream in every nook and cranny.


And you've read about Tits McGee, who found it necessary to blow dry her hair wearing a thong and a parka, before unleashing her cassava-sized boobs when she got too warm.


But this most recent incident, well...this one takes the cake.


As I was heading into the locker room post-run, I came around the corner and almost bumped into a woman who had just removed her towel. I came THISCLOSE to being all up in her shit.


As I sat and removed my sneakers, I could still see her out of the corner of my eye.


And then, folks, it went from bad to worse.


There she was, her back to me, panties halfway up her thighs, slightly bent over, peeling and securing a panty liner in her underwear.


OH.
MY.
GOD.


Perhaps she didn't see the bathroom stalls WITH DOORS a mere 20 feet away?


Women don't like to deal with their own panty liners. Let alone a stranger's.


Ladies, a little discretion, please.

move over, Joan Rivers. Here's KK's guide to Oscars fashion.

(Wait, this show was about movies???)

 "My upper thigh is better than YOUR upper thigh, Jen."

Also, is she in the running for the lead as the universe's palest vampire?

Lovely. 

Except for her hair. What's up with her hair?

LOVE! LOVE! LOVE!

THIS is how you do the Oscars, people.

 Nip slip city.

O-VER-RA-TED! 

(clap, clap, clap clap clap!)

Fabulous movie, fabulous gown.

Simple and sophisticated.

 Scarlet O'Hara called, she wants her prom dress back.

Amazing color. Fabulous fit. 

But what's up with that smile? 

"Oh, is it the Oscars already? What should I wear? 

Oh, I'll just grab the living room drapes and cinch them with a pin."

 After a few years of bad dresses and her Black Swan phase, Natalie gets it right.

 Katie Perry called. She wants her look back.

 G, I love ya. I feel for ya. You look beautiful.

But I'm thinking the accessory you should have carried last night was a sandwich.

Can someone please tell me how men get on the 'Best Dressed' list?

Do they not all just wear a tuxedo? (And black tuxedos at that.) 

Wait. This isn't Rita Wilson?

JFK-->LAX

I don’t want you to think crazy shit only happens to me at home.

Of course not.

Let’s review the fun facts of my business trip thus far.

I’m traveling on Valentine’s Day.

I’m spending 48 hours in LA. 14 of those hours are travel time.

My personal little JetBlue TV (my saving grace for this long flight; 6 whole hours of KK time with movies, The Food Network and BRAVO) stopped working an hour into the flight. The minute we landed, however, the TV popped back on.

During the flight, I somehow still had the TV audio. So I did what any resourceful girl would do. I found the channel that my non-English speaking neighbor was watching and tuned in. So for an hour I slyly leaned left and watched ‘Two And A Half Men’ re-runs (painful).

Then, she fell asleep. And ‘Star Trek The Movie’ started, and I began having crazy thoughts like: ‘can I get away with changing the channel on her TV without her noticing?’ I mean, Star Trek??

Not to mention the businessman sitting in the aisle seat. He had a perfectly fine TV that he didn’t watch one minute of the flight! What a waste!

The car rental counter proved even more fun. After waiting in line for a half hour, I was given my car – the last car in the last row of the big dark lot. I arrive to spot 956, which – of course- was empty. No car.

I trudge back inside to customer service. Twenty more minutes. A replacement car. Finally.

Cut to the hotel – which is in Marina Del Rey on the water and very nice. I’m up at the ungodly hour of 4:13am (7:13am to me!) when the power goes out.

Pitch black.

No air.

No lights.

No way to shower or do my hair.

((sigh))

gym diaries.

I've gotten used to the old, skinny ladies who walk around naked with their flappy skin and saggy asses. How they will turn to you, and look you in the eye and say, "MY! How do you walk in those shoes?"

I've even accepted the fact that while naked, they like to prop one leg up on the bench to apply cream to every nook and cranny God gave them.

And yes, I've come to terms that they will sit their bare asses on the dirty public locker room bench to put on their socks or to rest.

I thought I had seen it all.

Until Friday.

I was innocently applying my make-up, surrounded by women blow-drying their hair or putting on their faces.

Then I saw her.

A girl – whose age I can only describe as 27 from the neck down and 45 from the chin up - was getting ready directly behind me, so I could see her every move in my mirror.

She was applying her make-up wearing a lace thong, had her wet hair wrapped in a towel, and was wearing a black parka.

A parka.

Putting on her make-up.

It was long enough to just cover her tanned cheeks.

And when she started blow-drying her hair, naturally she got hot, so she took the parka off.

And the only thing she was wearing under her parka were nipples.

As soon as she unzipped the jacket her huge jugs sprang free, as if they were saying, "Helllllooo! I'm here! And I'm cold!"

What followed was lots of hair flipping and tit swinging.

Oh, did I mention that all the while, next to her on the counter, was her bra. Just staring at her. She could have just reached over and put.it.on. And prevented me from almost poking my eye out with my mascara wand.

why old people rock.

I'm a lucky girl - I still have 3 living grandparents.

And they're neighbors in the same building. And they go everywhere together. My grandmothers go to the hairdresser together every Friday. Then McDonald's for coffee and to share a filet-o-fish sandwich.

It's just too cute for words.

One grandmother is 88.

One grandmother is 91.

And my grandfather is 92.

What can I say, I have good genes.

And while I love that they are still around and I can see them every Sunday, they are all ridiculously hard to buy gifts for.

What DO you buy the person who has been collecting shit for 9 decades?

So each year for Christmas, Mr. KK and I give them the same gift: a trip to the casino.

Sounds silly, but these three musketeers look forward to this trip all year. Sure, they go on their bus trips each month, but this trip is their favorite: because they don't have a time limit and we take them for a nice dinner on the way home.

Oh, and they get to spend quality time with us.

My grandparents aren't the only ones who look forward to these trips. Mr. KK and I love it. We get to spend the whole day with them - and listen to their stories about who wouldn't share their cream puffs at bingo, the man who still has his wife dress him and how they won't attend the monthly birthday celebrations because the pizza is just horrible.

The best part of the trip is the car ride, when the three of them usually chat in the back.

This is my favorite conversation from the day:

GRAM: "I finished that book you gave me."

GRAMPS: "The Western one? Did you like it?"

GRAM: "Yes. But I skipped all the pages with the lovemaking."

THIS is why I need to post stories about my mother on this blog.

setting: Saturday night. Dinner at my parents house.

attendees: the KKs, my parents, Mr. KK's parents, and Mr. KK's aunt and uncle.

We just sat down to dinner, and were passing plates around and filling them with stuffed pork roast, garlic mashed potatoes and artichoke casserole.

We were joking with Mr. KK's uncle, who doesn't like it when his food touches on the plate.

And then my mother said, "Well, maybe we should get you a separated dick."

((awkward silence))

And then, bursts of laughter. We just couldn't.help.ourselves.

"Dish!" my mom cries. "I meant separated dish!"

Too late.